


Shattered

by WriterX



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, M/M, Memories, Post Reichenbach, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 20:23:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterX/pseuds/WriterX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two months after Sherlock's suicide, John is still having difficulty dealing with the vacancy in his life that had once been filled by the detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered

**Author's Note:**

> So this is just a little quick thing that I wrote when I heard the song "Shattered" by Trading Yesterday. Here's a link to the song on youtube - it's a really beautiful song.
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dzS4OJP-YMk

            John bounds up the stairs of the flat, his heart pounding in his chest, and his eyes lit up with excitement. “You’ll never guess what I did!” He cries out, his breathing labored from his sprint back to the flat, a smile stretching wide across his face.

            “God, it was amazing!” John’s eyes gleam at the memory. “I was standing at the cross walk, and the light had turned green, and this woman had started crossing the street, but this car had come barreling down the road, but I jumped out and I saved her! God, Sherlock, I saved her life! Sher –”

            He stops in the middle of his sentence, his heart dropping and the smile slipping from his face. His eyes sweep over the boxes in the flat – boxes filled with all of Sherlock’s things. John swallows hard, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

            John sniffles, raising a hand to cover his mouth and hide the sound of a sudden sob. His face contorts as he attempts to hold back his tears, and his fingers press hard against his face. He chokes on a breath, his fingers raking through his hair.

            His shoulders hunch over, and they shake with restrained sobs as silent tears spill down John’s cheeks. In his mind, he can see the brightly coloured eyes, the high cheekbones, and the curly black hair – but the image is forever locked in his memories. Because Sherlock isn’t waiting at the flat for him to get off work. He’s not making some sort of mess all over the table with fingers and eyeballs. He’s not doing anything.

            Because Sherlock Holmes is dead. And in the rush of excitement, John had forgotten.

            John inhales a shaky breath, holding a hand to his face and sniffling, watery eyes glancing around the flat. Two months. It’s been two months since his best friend committed suicide. And he’s still breaking down about it.

            Without a word, John sits down in Sherlock’s chair, his hands raking through his hair as he tries not to cry again. “I can’t understand.” He whimpers out to the open air, his voice catching on the words.

            There’s no way he can continue living like this. He can’t continue living here. Not if he’s going to keep seeing ghosts of Sherlock. Everyone tells him that things will get better. But lifeless words will carry on.

            John presses his fingers to his eyes, before leaning back in the chair and looking up at the ceiling. “Please, let me go.” The words are barely audible, his throat constricting with tears, the sounds slithering out of John’s mouth, painful and torn apart.

            He lost something he’d finally found again. His world became hollow again. Lost in a compromise with the streets of London. The silence of this place is too soon to follow. Finding answers is forgetting all the questions they called home. Passing by the grave…

            John bends over, his face in his hands as his shoulders shake, hiding his sorrow from the world. The reflection of a lie will keep him waiting around. But he can’t stay in this flat. Sherlock’s memory is haunting him. This day’s ending is proof of time killing all the faith he knows.

            “I’ve lost who I am.” John’s words are barely above a whisper, his heart too busy going through another heartbreak to give him the voice to speak louder. He feels like all is lost. The world thinks Sherlock is a fake – and John knows that’s not true. No matter what Sherlock Holmes tried to convince him of.

            He slips his phone out of his pocket, fingers numbly typing out a text to a number he hasn’t contacted in two months.

            _Shattered. JW_

            And when there’s no reply, John lets himself shatter, hope dying. 


End file.
